


All The Bones

by distantstarlight, FoolishAngel1987



Series: Pushing and Pulling [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Isolation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Friendship, Mental Anguish, Morbid, Nightmares, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolishAngel1987/pseuds/FoolishAngel1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has fallen and left John behind. The doctor must deal with the loss of his detective somehow. It's so easy to get lost in the darkness. Sometimes you have to make your own light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a long time before John left the flat for anything but the most necessary reasons. He had no reason to leave. A very grim Mycroft had shown up the day after the funeral with a barrister. John was barely conscious. He had come home from the cemetery and worked his way one bottle at a time through the drinks cupboard until he had passed out on the sofa. The barrister politely waited as Mycroft browbeat John into the shower and a clean set of clothes. John moved woodenly, uncaring but did at he was told.

When he was clean and shaved John sat down to tea and discovered he was Sherlock's sole beneficiary. John was now a wealthy man. Sherlock had lived all this time off a slim percentage of his trust fund. He'd lost control of his fortune when he'd become an addict. John had no such history and so received the entire sizable bulk of it in one large deposit. Part of the agreement was to settle the rent and utilities for 221 B for a full year at minimum. John had no financial worries anymore. He stared at Mycroft, barely aware of the proceedings. He signed where he was told to sign and when they were done Mycroft stood up and extended his hand. “You are the only person in the world who understands the magnitude of this loss Doctor Watson. I am at your disposal.” John shook his hand and never called Mycroft even once.

John called the clinic and gave them his notice, effective immediately. John canceled all his counseling appointments. They hadn't helped after the war and the sessions would not help him now. He shut down his blog, deactivated Sherlock's web-page and turned off his mobile. John locked his door and bolted it for good measure. No one saw him for weeks, not even Mrs. Hudson who left the occasional food delivery at his door and frequently meals she made special for him. She always found an envelope of cash to pay for supplies and her tray was always set on the landing, neatly washed.

John lost himself to grief. He wept every night, slept in Sherlock's room, taking slim comfort in the scent of Sherlock on the pillows. John drank steadily for only a couple of days before he accepted that it made no difference in dulling the pain. John kept 221 B like a shrine instead, cleaning everything obsessively, even keeping Sherlock's microscope and equipment on the kitchen table. All organic samples had long since been binned. Everything else was reverently cleaned and replaced exactly where it had been left. John went through his lover's possessions with care, making a mental inventory of all the unusual things that Sherlock had acquired.

John was simply getting dressed when he found the floor board with Sherlock's stash in it. John was silent when he had lifted the board and saw the long black lacquered box. The kit was complete, everything Sherlock had needed to get discretely high at home including a sizable bag of cocaine. John looked at it, his fingers tracing over the strange equipment inside. It would be a fitting way for John to end himself. Ironic.

John put everything back and closed the board firmly. He made a cup of tea and sat on the sofa to think. Sherlock had hidden his worst vice in John's room. John thought about that a lot. Sherlock had known John would not tolerate his drug use. In all their time together John was certain Sherlock hadn't slipped. Instead the detective had kept testing himself by making John his barrier. If Sherlock wanted to get high he'd have to violate John's trust to do so. He obviously hadn't. John wondered what other things were hidden in 221 B.

It became his pastime. John carefully unloaded one shelf after another to seek hiding places. Over the weeks John found a startling assortment of illegal weapons, poisons and chemicals that normally required special licenses to obtain. They were all carefully stored in industrial grade containers. Obviously they were for Sherlock's myriad of experiments, his hoard. John put everything back exactly as he had found it, even wiping his prints carefully from the containers as well as the hiding spots.

John found things of his hidden away. A key-chain he'd once used that had broken. A voided ticket to a play they had seen together. A blood smeared cab receipt from a night John had gotten hurt while on a case, one of the first nights if John recalled correctly. Sherlock had been like a magpie. He had hidden away sentiment like treasure. The flat was a warehouse of Sherlock's feelings. John wept again, missing Sherlock more than ever. He knew he could never leave 221 B. Sherlock was ingrained in every part of it and it was all John had left.

Sometimes grief overwhelmed the doctor and he could only sit and stare. He slept in Sherlock's room until not one trace of the detective's scent remained. John then washed the bedding carefully, remade the bed crisply and shut the door. He resumed sleeping in his own room from then on. He still spent time in the detective's room though. John poured over Sherlock's possessions, puzzling out Sherlock's past from the clues left behind.

Mycroft returned Sherlock's Belstaff, or at least, Anthea did. She had arrived one day with the coat in a long cleaner’s bag, the tag still stuck to the hanger. John accepted it mutely and shut the door on her face. John couldn't look at it. He left the coat in the bag and hung it in Sherlock's wardrobe next to his suits. John had bagged everything carefully to make sure nothing spoiled his mementos. He came in here to just look at Sherlock's clothes when times got too rough.

John had nightmares every single night and he accepted them even though the screams made him hoarse. The war featured heavily but the nightmares mostly had to do with Sherlock. In his tortured dreams John saw Sherlock die a thousand different ways. Even though they made him cry, made him ache John blessed the nightmares because even though it hurt, for a few precious moments in the dream he was with his demon again.

John missed Sherlock. He missed the frenetic pace of Sherlock's existence, the vitality of his every moment. Even when he was lost in his mind palace Sherlock always had a way of seeming very busy. John missed watching Sherlock think. He used to love gazing at the man when he was lost in thought. It had been a beautiful show, a private viewing that only John got to appreciate. Sherlock's mind was the first thing John had fallen for; his cleverness, his wicked truthfulness. John found himself gripping the doors of the wardrobe. He loosed his fingers slowly and firmly closed the door and walked away.

John grew thin. He barely ate. Everything tasted like ashes. John choked down just enough to get by on and as time slowly went by John needed less and less. One day he realized he was too small for his clothes and decided to try on one of Sherlock's slim cut shirts. It fit neatly and John stared at himself in the tall mirror of the wardrobe. He remembered this shirt. John remembered a night Sherlock had worn it. They were staking out a wedding reception of all things and Sherlock had danced while John laughed. Sherlock had been in a silly mood that night and replicated some astounding dance moves he'd seen some of the younger members of the crowd doing. John took the shirt off and hung it up under a bag once again. If he was able to get into Sherlock's shirt then he had lost a substantial amount of weight.

John tried to care about that but he couldn't. He could drink tea, eat toast sometimes. Fruit seemed alright, mostly but anything else made him want to heave. Now he only ate when he was so hungry he could bear the way it felt to chew, to swallow. He switched to replacement meal drinks for a long time. They were easy and it didn't matter that they all tasted of ash as well.

John lost time a lot but he didn't care about that either. Sometime he'd find himself sitting in his chair, hours having passed him by while he had simply sat there, motionless. There was nothing in his life anymore so who cared if whole pieces of his day simply went by without him.

John thought about suicide a great deal. He wondered what had made Sherlock jump. What had happened that John had missed? Why had Sherlock left him after promising never to do so? If Sherlock had wanted to die he should have told John so John could have gone with him. He would have. He would have held Sherlock's hand as they plummeted together, died right beside Sherlock happily rather than continue existing without him.

John wondered about killing himself. He knew a lot of ways to do it. John had been an army doctor and was a war vet. Suicide was no stranger to him. John began to spend time in maudlin contemplation of how he could die. He wasted entire afternoons doing nothing but creating one detailed suicide plan after another. He didn't act on any of them though he could have.

_“I'm glad you wait for me John. It makes it easier, knowing you're waiting for me.”_

_“I'll always wait Sherlock. You can count on it.”_

John woke up on the sofa. Tears had dried on his face and the echoes of the long ago conversation shivered through John's mind. He realized that's what he had been doing. He was waiting for Sherlock to come back. John's lover never would. The realization was shattering and it was like the first day all over again. John howled into the Union Jack pillow, his grief ripping the sobs from him jaggedly. John gasped and heaved as the pain crushed him utterly.

John pushed himself off the sofa and staggered to his room. Clawing his way through his trunk John dug out a small box he had packed away weeks ago. He pulled out his Sig. It gleamed. John took good care of his weapon. There was a thumping downstairs. Someone was kicking his door. John ignored it and loaded the clip. Tears ran down John's face. He knelt on the floor and tilted his head back. Closing his eyes John pushed the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He thought of Sherlock. Maybe they'd be together again. If not, then at least this would all be over.

“ _John NO!_ ” Lestrade? Greg was there and he was pulling the gun away from John. What was the Detective Inspector doing here? “Jesus Christ John! Mycroft called and said you were going to kill yourself! He's got your flat bugged in every way possible!”

John was still wild with grief. He tried to reach his weapon but Greg had it high in the air. He looked sheepish but concerned, “Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to do this. He was your best friend! No matter why he did what he did I know he was your best mate and you know he would have wanted you to go on!”

“You don't understand! No one does! I loved him Lestrade. He wasn't just my best friend. He was everything to me. I loved him and he's gone. I'll never get my Sherlock back and I just can't take knowing that anymore.”

“Of course you loved him, he loved you too, anyone could see that. Sherlock always was a stubborn one but you are too John. Get up. Come on. We're getting out of this place for a couple of hours. Myc told me you've barely left since the funeral.”

“Myc?” Lestrade flushed deeply and swore. John was still hazy but he couldn't help but deduce Greg the way Sherlock once would have. The DI was embarrassed. He'd made an unintentional slip by using such a familiar form of address for the very stuffy civil servant. “Greg are you seeing Sherlock's older brother?”

Greg flushed again. “I guess you could say that. At least, he sends by those black cars every once in a while to collect me. I never know when. He's been keeping an eye on you.”

John rubbed his eyes and stood up. He felt weak. He pulled out some clean clothes and dressed himself quietly. “Why.”

“I don't know. Maybe he feels responsible for you. You're the only friend his brother ever had. That actually means a lot to Mycroft. He's not all bad John. He's like Sherlock that way, you have to look past the shitty attitude and pruney expressions to get to the gold. Mycroft was worried about you. I'm just grateful I was nearby when he called. Another minute and I would have been too late. Jesus fuck John what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that the man I love is dead. I was thinking that I have no place left in this world any more. I have no reason to keep on going without him. Do you follow me now Greg? I loved Sherlock, _more than a friend_ , even a best friend.” John looked at the DI who seemed to struggle with this idea.

“You mean...you and Sherlock....you...no! Really? Like really really? I thought all those rumors were sacks of crap.” the silver haired man was shocked.

“We'd only just started dating. Sherlock wasn't ready for people to know. You know how he was about his transport. Also it's kind of hard to tell people you're a sociopath when your boyfriend is holding your hand everywhere.” Greg gave a strange broken laugh and looked at John with reddened eyes.

“John. I'm so sorry. If I'd known I wouldn't have left you here alone all this time. I should have realized. Mycroft knew? Of course he did. Figures the bastard wouldn't tell me.” Greg looked hard at John. “You look like shit. Let's get out of the mausoleum and get some proper food into you.”

Greg took John to a pub and got them a booth in a quiet corner. John felt nauseated when he smelled the food but Lestrade wasn't letting him off the hook. “Eat a bite of everything at least. Take it slow but have something.” John picked at the salad until it was mostly gone. He'd cut his meat up into tiny pieces but couldn't bring a single forkful to his mouth. Finally he just put his cutlery down and looked at Greg.

“I don't know what to do. I can't be around other people. I'm rich now, did you know? Sherlock left me everything, changed his will about a month before he jumped, never told me. Never told me a lot of things it seems. Maybe he would have eventually, if we'd had time.” John didn't realize tears were slipping quietly down his cheeks until Lestrade handed him an unused napkin.

“You haven't seen the press then I take it.” John shook his head and Lestrade swore again under his breath. “There's no easy way to tell you this John but Sherlock's reputation is shot to shit. The press has painted him as a fraud, said he faked everything and that Richard Brook was an innocent man. That Kitty Riley character has been raking in a fortune by explaining the entire so called truth to everyone willing to pay.”

John felt something apart from sorrow for the first time, _anger_. He savored it for a moment then let it flare into life. “Explain everything I've missed.” he commanded. Greg did. They spent the rest of the day in the pub. John didn't notice himself pick one bite at a time off his plate until it was cleared. He didn't notice the tea he drank and later a single pint. Greg was going over all the various accusations made against Sherlock and John was filled with righteous rage. “She's wrong. He was a genius.”

“I know it. You know it. Myc knows it. A handful of people know it John. Not enough. You know he aggravated people. There are way more people ready to speak ill of Sherlock than there are people willing to speak good. You know it. Even people he helped had a hard time putting up with his shit. No one knows how you did it.”

“I don't know either Greg. I just did. It's who he was and I loved all of it. He was bigger than life.” John's mind was racing. It had been months since the funeral. How could he turn the tides back in Sherlock's favor? “She's wrong. They're all wrong and I'm going to find those people who agree with me.”

John was sitting straight. His back was stiff and his jaw was set. For the first time in months John had a reason to keep breathing, a war to fight. John wasn't going to allow Sherlock's reputation, the very thing that kept them from being together publicly be tarnished just so some upstart money grubber could live large. John's mind began to sift and churn with ideas.

Greg brought him back to 221 B. John was distracted now, “You going to be okay John? I'm keeping your gun and Myc is still monitoring you.” John nodded. He should have realized Mycroft wouldn't ignore him entirely.

“I promise I won't try to kill myself in the foreseeable future Greg. You can stop worrying. Thanks for coming over and telling me everything. It helps. It really does.” The DI smiled down at John.

“I know it might be rough but do you think you'd be interested in helping The Yard again? I know Sherlock was the star on your team but you had a good eye too. What do you think?”

John mulled that over. It would be hard going on cases without Sherlock but on the other hand who else could be relied upon to do The Work his lover had dedicated himself to? John nodded. “Not all the time, ask and give me a choice. I don't know if I can do it but I'll try.”

“Right. Good. Okay then. I'll come by again soon okay?” John shook Greg's hand and bade him farewell. Then John went downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson. She cried on him and he apologized for shutting her out. She had grieved too and he hadn't been there for her though she had been there for him. Of course Mrs. Hudson knew more than she had ever let on.

“You lost the love of your life John. I understood. I'm so happy to see you again my boy! Sit. Let me get you some tea. I baked today too.” John didn't want it but he drank his tea and ate a fresh cookie for her. Mrs. Hudson's eyes were watery when John explained his new purpose. “Good John. It needs to be done. We'll help of course.”

“Help? Who help?” John couldn't think of who apart from Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft or Lestrade that would be interested in clearing Sherlock's reputation. “Who would want to help me do this?”

“Oh there's all sorts of people John. Why Mrs. Turner and I were having a bit of a chat just the other day. So many people in the neighborhood of course knew Sherlock. I bet if we asked around we could find out so much more. What are your plans?”

“Working on them Mrs. Hudson. If you'll excuse me I'm going to go do that right now.” Mrs. Hudson kissed John's cheek and gave him a squeeze. She also made him a sandwich for later and told him to bring down his laundry for her to do.

John spent hours reading over their case notes. He had come up with a filing system that even Sherlock had agreed was better than the stacked-in-a-heap method the detective had previously employed. Sometimes John traced his fingers over notes Sherlock had penned in but didn't stop as he read his way through one file after another. They'd done a lot of work in their short time together and Sherlock had noted years of work he had done before that. John read until his head ached and he needed a break.

After a cup of tea and his sandwich John sat in front of his laptop for the first time in half a year. It gleamed just as everything in the flat did. Turning it on John re-activated his blog and posted a single entry. “ _I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love sometimes requires sacrifice and nobility even from those you wouldn't expect it from.

In London two men died. Their bodies were never found. No one reported them missing because for all intents and purposes they had never truly existed. In London there was a man in a fine suit reading a rather lengthy text from a dead man. After finishing he replied with a single letter. “ _M_ ”

After a moment the elegant man received an equally brief reply, “ _J_ ” Working for a moment the man in the suit attached a file to his message and sent it along. He expected no reply and got none. Setting the phone on the expensive desk in front of him Mycroft Holmes knitted his fingers together and thought of his little brother.

It had been weeks and Sherlock was sick of being in the world alone. He missed John. Sherlock was painfully lonely but was driven to continue. He couldn't stop, not even for a bit. Time mattered. The tall lean man was hunched over his laptop, his long fingers dancing over the keys as he worked. Sherlock was thinner and paler than ever. There was nothing on his face, it was a blank. He couldn't allow himself to feel so he had shut down as many of his emotions as he could manage. It wasn't easy and they escaped often.

A thunderstorm of typing suddenly ended as Sherlock hit enter. The program he had written whirred into life and danced away into the ether to slay Sherlock's enemies. It was part of what he was doing, the quest he had been forced to embark on, the battle to save John. While Sherlock waited he opened the file Mycroft had sent him. The emotions he struggled so hard to contain rushed out when Sherlock looked at the collection of photos, _John_.

The doctor was a mess. Sherlock could barely make himself look at image after image of John suffering. Only the occasional change in clothes along with the time-stamp showed that time was passing at all for his lover. Sherlock mopped his eyes with his tee-shirt. He never remembered to pick up things like handkerchiefs or even disposable tissues.

Sherlock went to the small bathroom and washed up. He kept himself there until he looked pale and unaffected once again. Returning to the room Sherlock packed his laptop, picked up his phone and a small haversack that contained everything Sherlock owned and left. He wouldn't be back here. This part was done and there was so much more to do.

Sherlock had been traveling constantly since he faked his death. He hadn't wanted to die but the scenario had to be planned for and Sherlock was grateful in a way that he had thought of it. Moriarty dying in front of him had been a surprise. Sherlock hadn't figured that the megalomaniac would have removed himself from the world so easily.

Sherlock thought of that day as he walked briskly. The pain of striking the ground, padded though it was, was nothing like the pain Sherlock had felt when he heard John screaming. The medication he'd taken had prevented him from reacting as John tried to take Sherlock's pulse and even though Sherlock's eyes did not dilate he still had seen the expression on John's face, the disbelief and shock, the incipient grief and the pain that Sherlock now saw was ever present.

John was grieving for Sherlock and Sherlock hated every second he needed to be away. Sherlock railed at his lack of choices. He wanted John with him but it wasn't possible. Sherlock wanted his quest to be over but every step he took forward seemed to make the problem even bigger even as he succeeded. Moriarty was indeed a master criminal. His mind had been as twisted and convoluted as Sherlock's but completely lacked the logical mastery. Moriarty was a wildfire and Sherlock needed to stamp out the embers of his empire before he could return to his doctor.

Three assassins.

One for John.

One for Mrs. Hudson.

One for Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The three people who cared for Sherlock and for whom Sherlock cared. Mycroft's problems with Moriarty were of an entirely different nature so Sherlock supposed the madman had wanted to end his older brother separately. It didn't matter now.

Two assassins had been killed.

The third escaped.

The worst one.

The one that had been assigned to John.

_Sebastian Moran._

He'd been a Colonel when he'd been respectable. Sebastian Moran was highly trained, an operative with clearance so secret his CV was mostly pages of blacked out words and useless information. After a dishonorable discharge Moran had dropped off the face of the earth for nearly a decade only to resurface with James Moriarty, acting as his second in command.

Moran was crafty and cruel, focused and patient. He had been unreasonably devoted to Moriarty as well. Sherlock's research had turned up an impressively long list of murders committed by Moran for his madman of a partner. The only thing that kept John alive right now was his grief. Sherlock being dead was the only reason John had not been killed. As far as Moran was aware Sherlock had truly died and therefore his job was over. Moran was diligent about completing his tasks. If he heard even a whisper that Sherlock had survived all the agents in London currently watching John wouldn't be able to save him. Sherlock absolutely could not risk that.

Baker Street was observed at all moments. Mycroft had promised. Every resident was cataloged and monitored, every casual pedestrian was noted. There could be no risks to John's life or this would all be for nothing. There had been plans in place for the clinic and even the veterans association John still went to but apparently John had locked himself away and remained in 221 B almost constantly.

Sherlock caught a taxi after he had walked for a long time. While the driver took him to the train station Sherlock fingered the dogtags around his neck. He had needed something, a token. John's tags were special in so many ways. Sherlock wondered if John ever noticed they were missing. From the reports it looked like John spent only enough time in his room to sleep or change his clothes. He hadn't touched his trunk where the dogtags had lived.

Sherlock bought a ticket and found a seat on the train for the ride to the next city. He wasn't worried about being recognized. Sherlock had dyed his hair auburn and combed it neatly back, trying to ignore how similar it made him look to Mycroft. Sherlock wore long soft jeans that were worn at the thighs, a long sleeved tee-shirt and a rather awful green and tan jumper. He didn't look anything like Sherlock Holmes. His ID read “Jaime John.” Anyone who thought about the name for a second would realize it was simply French for _I love John_.

Sherlock was dead and he comforted himself in small ways, like taking John's name as his own, by declaring his love for John both secretly and openly. By going on each and every day even though Sherlock missed John so much it made him sick. Each gambit took time though, precious irretrievable time. Moriarty's empire was hidden all over the world and Sherlock needed to get to each and every location, destroy the operation, whatever it was and move on.

He was also hunting. Moran was out there somewhere. He was nearly as devious as Moriarty, nearly. Sherlock had almost caught up to Moran a dozen times already. The ex-Colonel had no idea how many times he'd escaped death. If Sherlock could kill Moran he could go home and not need to finish the rest of the quest. Everything would collapse without Moran. Sherlock pressed onward and looked at the pictures on his mobile once again.

John was a drug and Sherlock was having withdrawals. He needed John beside him, to steady Sherlock, to bring him back into focus. It couldn't happen. Not yet. The best Sherlock could do for himself was keep asking Mycroft to forward these few images of John, to do his best to look out for the doctor. Mycroft came through for Sherlock as best he could.

Sherlock checked into the hotel room that was waiting for him. There was a parcel on the bed. Sherlock unwrapped it and sank to his knees, _a jumper_. Leaning forward Sherlock buried his face in John's least favorite jumper and almost wept with loneliness. It smelled like tea and gun oil. It smelled clean and honest. John. Sherlock cursed and blessed Mycroft for this unexpected gift. Sherlock pulled it on immediately and curled up on the bed hugging himself. He missed John.

Eventually Sherlock collected himself and got off the bed, opening his laptop once more. He plugged it in. It was important to keep it charged. Sherlock plugged his phone in as well. Information streamed across the screen of his computer as he received another information packet from Mycroft. Soon Sherlock was hunched over once again, typing furiously.

Some hours later Sherlock forced himself to stop for food and rest. He'd made a promise to himself to remain clean and healthy for John. Whenever it was that Sherlock got to return home he wasn't going to burden his lover with health problems that were easily avoided. He forced himself to consume a small but balanced meal and two tall glasses of water. He couldn't drink tea all the time. Sherlock pined for a cigarette and begged John's forgiveness as he submitted to this one last weakness and had one.

The cigarettes helped. John had asked Sherlock to stop but hadn't pressured the detective to do so all the way. Now Sherlock regulated his habit very seriously. No more than one a day. If he could miss it he did. Slowly as the weeks grew into months Sherlock had disciplined himself away from smoking full time. Now as much as four days could go by before he had one. He liked to think John would be proud of him.

Half a year trickled by. Sherlock couldn't help but mark each and every day. His need for John had grown so severe that Sherlock sometimes felt a phantom John by his side, a ghost of his lover that watched Sherlock's every move, commenting on his decisions in John's soft honest voice. Sherlock began to listen to the voice, filtering his decisions based on John's advice. The detective didn't find this strange. It was comforting to have John with him now. There was work to do and Sherlock couldn't go home until it was done.

He got the worst sort of news from Mycroft. John. His beautiful John had tried to kill himself. Mycroft had dispatched Lestrade instantly and the DI had narrowly prevented John from succeeding. Sherlock had to muffle his sobs in a pillow as panic overwhelmed him. Sherlock wanted to go home but he couldn't! John. Marvelous warm and generous John had almost taken himself away from Sherlock forever! How much was John suffering? Sherlock tore at his hair, frantic with worry. How could Sherlock ever make it right between them! He had to finish this task. He had to. More determined than ever Sherlock washed his face and sat himself in front of his laptop once again. He had work to do.

The very next day Mycroft sent an unexpected update. It seemed that Lestrade had performed a miracle and had ended the fugue state John had been stuck in. The doctor had accepted the offer to return working for the Yard and had reactivated his long unused blog. Mycroft forwarded John's single post.

_“I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”_

Sherlock wept again. Brave amazing incredible John. He had pushed through his grief and was taking up their life again _without Sherlock_. Sherlock had faith in John's abilities. John saw more than most people. He wasn't as good as Sherlock but John alone was far better a detective than anyone at the Yard, even Lestrade whom Sherlock almost professionally respected. John had paid close attention and had learned a lot. Sherlock wished he could watch John work, see how he made his deductions, how John observed the clues the others would surely miss.

Sherlock was suddenly so proud of his doctor and horribly afraid. John would never forgive Sherlock for this. Sherlock needed to finish this job so he could beg on his knees for forgiveness. Terror struck him. If John was moving on with The Work where else was he moving on? Suddenly a new fear inveigled its way into Sherlock's thoughts. What if John met someone? What if John fell in love again! It happened. As far as John believed Sherlock was dead and never coming back. There was nothing to stop him. Sherlock could not stop his silent tears. In his whole life he had never wept so much. He curled up on the bed and fell miserably asleep still wearing John's jumper.

There was so much work still left to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loves his doctor. How could you have doubted it?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has finally managed to shake the paralyzing grief he feels.

In order to begin his self-appointed task John needed to leave 221 B every single day. He got his hair cut properly, had his clothes professionally cleaned and made up a list of people he wanted to talk to. He had pressured Greg into giving him everything he knew about Richard Brook/Moriarty then had searched out Mycroft for the first time and forced him to add to the information Greg had provided.

John was polite but somber as he began to re-interview old clients. He searched out everyone he could that was connected with Moriarty's London based operations. Most of them had been innocent dupes, a favorite way for Moriarty to operate. One name at a time John chased down leads and a file began to grow. The soldier found time passed a little less onerously now that he had something to fight for.

John began a campaign against Kitty Riley's body of work. He used Sherlock's methods and reviewed every piece she had ever worked on. His coup de grace was delivered nearly a full year after Sherlock had jumped. John provided Kitty Riley's professional rivals all the information he had unearthed about her shoddy research and misrepresentation. John then stood back and watched her fellows tear her to shreds. When the furor died down the media personality of Kitty Riley may as well never have existed. The fortune she had obtained through Sherlock's shame was locked up in endless legal battles. She had lost everything. John was only partially satisfied. She may have earned the most off of Sherlock's fall but she wasn't the only one who had benefited. John had a list and her name had simply been the first.

John was working for the Yard part-time. The first case he'd been called on had resulted in a rather short and intense scrap with both Donovan and Anderson. They'd made the mistake of calling Sherlock a freak one more time right to John's face and he had retaliated instantly. Woman or not Donovan was on the ground nearly as fast as Anderson. John stood over both their gasping bodies as they clutched their stomachs where John had punched with great thoroughness. “If you slander Sherlock Holmes one more time I will make it my personal mission to ruin you both even more than I ruined Kitty Riley. Go ahead and press assault charges if you want. I'll go online and tell everyone what you said, I'll out your affair, I will mention that lovely STD you now share and I will make your lives a hell that you will never get out of. That's just me getting started, alright? Hear me? Now excuse me, Lestrade is waiting.”

John wasn't terribly surprised to find out that both Donovan and Anderson received demotions without his interference. As Kitty Riley went down so did their professional reputations. Their bias and assumptions were graphically detailed by the very reporters John had handed Miss Riley to. Somewhere far above Lestrade authorities had noticed and responded accordingly. The Yard was a public entity. It couldn't afford the kind of stain the two of them had caused. After careful review of their performance both of them were shunted off to less visible jobs. John checked their names off his list. It was still substantial though so John kept working. He had a mission to clear Sherlock's name and restore the reputation his late lover had prized so much.

John's life became regimented and carefully controlled. He still felt hollow but John rose at the same time each and every morning. He took up exercise, working out at a local gym and running through the parks. He ate carefully to regain the weight he had lost, all of it slowly returning as hard lean muscle. John returned to the range and took lessons in different sorts of weaponry to keep himself occupied. His friends at the Veterans Associations were happy to see him and all of them were willing to drag out their collections of weapons for an afternoon of target practice and old stories. It cheered John up and he liked to think that Sherlock would have been proud of him for carrying on.

John worked set hours. Mornings were for exercising and chores. Afternoons were for working on his various projects. The evenings were for working on cases if he had any. He had solved a dozen or so small ones in the last half year since he'd resumed his work. Lestrade had thanked him effusively but John just shook his head. Everything had come to him easily, the clues almost screaming to be noticed. He wondered how Sherlock must have felt all the time when his viewpoint was so far above John's. The ineptitude that filled the world must have driven Sherlock spare. No wonder he had been so abrasive. John could almost hear his insults and it made him smile.

John blogged regularly, the cases he solved presented as dedications to Sherlock rather than achievements by John. He received a massive outpouring of sympathy and respect from all over the place. He used his blog as a platform to begin gathering evidence to support his belief in his late lover and the comment section was almost overloaded with positive testimony.

People took on John's quest. Before he knew it small fan groups had sprung up, everyone toiling over a case that had somehow become known all through London. Graffiti showed up all over the town as people began to spread their faith with the words “I Believe In Sherlock Holmes”. John's heart was warmed by all of it.

John discovered his rent paid for another full year, utilities included. He called Mycroft and asked why. “It was in my brother's will Doctor.” the explanation didn't really satisfy John but then he didn't really remember going over the will. He was sure the barrister had read it out carefully to John but the doctor had been in no condition to take in anything. John shook his head and took Mrs. Hudson out for dinner and a movie after they went to visit Sherlock's headstone. They did the same every third Thursday of the month and shared funny stories of all the strange things Sherlock had gotten up to. It made it easier for both of them to miss the man.

After a couple more months of continual existence John decided he needed to get back into the game again. He didn't really want to, he just felt like it was part of a normal life and that's what he was trying to do, get back to normal. He went out to the pubs with Lestrade and other members of the Yard at first. Eventually those evenings felt alright and John decided to try a little gentle flirtation with some of the pretty women he met. It went well. John was sweet, considerate and fairly attractive. The aura of grief that still hung onto him was the most irresistible lure for the ladies and John found his advances being readily accepted time and again.

He never took it further than flirting at the pub. Sometimes he accepted mobile numbers but he threw them away before he went home. Talking to a stranger someplace public was one thing but John couldn't bring himself to consider allowing someone new into his bed. The thought of kissing someone after Sherlock made him want to retch. It wouldn't be fair to the women anyway, even if John did bring them home. Nothing would happen.

John hadn't had an erection since before The Fall. His libido had shut down completely and his body was non-responsive. John didn't miss it. As far as he could tell he hadn't even gotten hard in his dreams, had never woken once with a mess in his pajamas. He felt no urge to masturbate, his flesh used for only utilitarian purposes. The gents at the pub teased and chortled at John each time he discarded another napkin written in lipstick or a hastily acquired pen but John would just shrug and say nothing.

The women didn't interest him. Neither did the men. John had checked. He wasn't any more gay than he had been before he'd met Sherlock. The women seemed too soft, too short, too dull and the men were just a bunch of guys who did nothing to pique John's sexual interest a jot. After trying two or three more times to allow himself to pick up someone, anyone John gave up and returned to 221 B to go through all of Sherlock's possessions yet again.

John noticed something finally. He was looking through his trunk for a jumper he thought he'd had. Sherlock must have destroyed it and hidden the remains as he had done many times before. John had lost more than one jumper to Sherlock's experiments and had long ago stopped keeping track of them. He bought them second hand, having a fondness for an older style and bolder patterns. When John dug through his mementos he discovered his dogtags were missing as well. He hadn't seen them since the last time Sherlock had worn them.

John searched his trunk and then the rest of the flat, nearly disassembling the sofa to check if they'd fallen in between the cushions, nothing. Then John realized Sherlock must have been wearing them that day. He had done that occasionally, just slipping the dogtags on to keep him company if John were going to work. Sherlock must have been buried with John's dogtags. John felt sorrow again but then he felt alright. There was no place he'd rather they be than with his lover. It was fitting.

One night after coming home from the Yard John was having a hard time falling asleep. He padded into Sherlock's room barefoot the way he so often did and browsed his way through Sherlock's reference books. He made his way to Sherlock's wardrobe and as on many nights he pulled it open to look through Sherlock's old outfits. The Belstaff was hanging there. John took it out and lay it on the bed. Unzipping the bag slowly John was suddenly floored by the strong scent of Sherlock emanating from his coat. It had been spot cleaned only, the blood from the Fall carefully removed but everything else was the same.

John was on his knees, his grief fresh once again. Sherlock! Beautiful, unearthly, never to be kissed again Sherlock. John realized he loved Sherlock as much as he ever had, that the grief might never leave him. If anything John loved Sherlock more than before because now he knew so much more about his bright star. All the little trinkets in Sherlock's room had allowed John to glimpse at all the small things that had shaped his lover over his life. In the last year and a half John had thoroughly absorbed Sherlock's notes and papers, learned more about how he perceived information and if Sherlock had been alive the two of them would have worked together in perfect lockstep.

John crawled onto Sherlock's bed and dragged the Belstaff over him until his head was covered. John wept the night away under the coat, breathing in the smell of his lost love and reliving ever tender moment they ever shared. How sweet Sherlock's kisses had been! How young he had seemed in his fear, fear that John had worked so ardently to help him conquer. Maybe the pain wouldn't have lingered so long if they hadn't been lovers, if John didn't remember what it was like to be surrounded by Sherlock or recall what it had been like to take his lover inside himself. John mourned once again and vowed to never take another lover for all his days. Sherlock was his heart and soul and always would be. John would be alone forever, would carry his demon's torch into eternity and John would be the inferno for him.

In the morning when he woke he found a slip of paper stuck in the seam of one of the coat pockets. There were two words on it. _Moriarty_ and _Moran_. Who was Moran? Was he an associate of Moriarty's? A victim? A fake identity? John sat up, hugging the coat tight to him as he looked at the names spelled out in Sherlock's hand. Something in his memory wanted attention so John pulled out his box of case notes and reread several files carefully.

John sat there and thought about everything. For the first time he allowed himself to recall that last conversation with Sherlock, the things he had tried to say, nearly all of which John denied. There was one thing that now stood out. “It's just a trick.” Why hadn't he considered what Sherlock was saying to him? Rationally John knew why of course. He had avoided thinking about that final conversation because of what had happened immediately after it. Now he wondered what other clues he had missed. There was a message there, he knew it now. There were other things now, things John had not paid proper attention too.

_John's dogtags were missing._

_There was a mysterious person named Moran, someone important enough for Sherlock to keep noted right next to Moriarty._

_John hadn't seen Sherlock's body after the fall. It had been a closed casket funeral at the request of the family._

_John had become Sherlock's sole beneficiary even though they had no legal tie and Sherlock had not asked._

_Mycroft still monitored John_.

John knew he had to know more. He needed to think, clear his head. Reverently John packed the Belstaff away, kissing the lapel of it tenderly before zipping the garment bag closed once again. John showered and changed, cleaned out the fridge and unplugged it then took the bags to the bins in the alley. He went down to see Mrs. Hudson but she wasn't home. John went back up to his room and packed a small bag that also fit his laptop, tucked in the Sig that Greg had finally returned as well as all his rounds of ammunition. John went to the bank and withdrew a substantial amount of cash, packing it into his shoulder bag discretely. John simply walked to the Tube from there and disappeared from sight.

No one noticed for two entire days. Mycroft and Greg stood on the sidewalk outside 221 Baker Street and discussed their options. Lestrade was unwilling to publicly declare John missing. There was no sign of a struggle. 221 B had been locked like normal but John was just gone. Mycroft wasn't looking forward to the call he now needed to make. Both men decided to keep it as quiet as possible so Mycroft's team took over the search while Greg fretted uselessly. Deploying his people where John was last seen Mycroft picked up his mobile and made the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh John. What have you done!
> 
> I've promised someone that the angst doesn't last forever. Or does it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is doing the best that he can but it's been such a long time. He's learned to deal with his loneliness in probably a Not Good way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't make you wait. Even I'm not that cruel.
> 
> Oh who are we kidding. Yes I am.

Sherlock was frustrated. He was stuck. There wasn't anything more he could do in the location he was at and he just didn't know where to begin next. One business at a time Sherlock had ruined the financial pillars that had funded Moriarty's empire. Like rats from a sinking ship the people who had once been loyal to the insane little Irishman evaporated one at a time. Sherlock's leads were drying up.

Sherlock would like to say he was done but he hadn't gotten any closer to finding Moran and that was a real problem. Sherlock had hoped that with the loss of one company after another the net around Moran would grow inescapably tight. The man had managed to slip past Sherlock time and time again. It was a very big problem indeed. Without solving the problem Sherlock couldn't see how he could go home again. Sherlock was getting desperate. He needed to be occupied or he needed to go home.

Sherlock contacted Mycroft and made him run a check one more time. If Mycroft was successful there would be a new destination for Sherlock later today, another organization to ruin. Sherlock looked at his newest pictures of John. His doctor was looking so much better. He wasn't the happy smiling man he used to be but at least he was busy now. Sherlock poured over each photo, taking in every new wrinkle, each expression that had been caught for him. Sherlock smiled and stroked the picture softly. If he closed his eyes he could still imagine the velvet softness of John's skin.

Mycroft forwarded copies of all the case files that John worked on. Sherlock beamed to himself as he examined the police photos and determined that John had caught if not everything, then at least everything of note, enough to prove his deductions at least. _Good old John_.

Moran was still elusive but Sherlock had seen the pattern emerge. Moran traveled constantly but after over a year and a half of trailing him Sherlock could see that Moran was actually not randomly going from place to place. He attended the existing businesses Moriarty had left behind, the ones that had survived Sherlock at least. Sherlock forced himself to sit down and go over every tiny scrap of information he had unearthed about the man. He'd set his traps and waited, nothing.

Moran knew someone was attacking Moriarty's empire but still had no idea it was Sherlock. That was good. Sherlock was sure he could predict where Moran was going to next. If he could get ahead of the man just once he could set up a sting and finally just kill the bastard. Sherlock discussed it at length with John, debating the pros and cons of various plans until Sherlock came up with one John approved of. It made Sherlock blushed with pleased shyness as John's phantom smiled proudly down at him.

Sherlock took John's advice often. John was sensible and practical. He made sure Sherlock ate at least two healthy meals a day and slept for a minimum of five hours. Phantom John kept Sherlock company during long trips between locations and reminded Sherlock of pleasanter days. Phantom John wanted Sherlock to go home and Sherlock wanted that too. They argued about it.

“I can't go home. You're in danger.” That was the whole point! Why didn't John understand?

“ _You can't find Moran and I'm suffering. Go back to London. Moran will notice._ ” That was true. John was suffering still and Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

“That's the problem though. If Moran knows I'm alive he'll kill you.” Moran was a true hitman. His kill list was disturbingly long and those were only the ones Sherlock had managed to find out about. Who knew what the real number was.

“ _I'm dying already Sherlock. Look at me. That smile is fake. I'm hollow. Going through the motions. I haven't been on a single date for almost two years. Come home and save me._ ” John had regained a lot of mass the last half year but he was still very thin compared to the John Sherlock had left behind.

“John I don't want you to date and I can't come home. I want to, you know I want to. Moran....” Sherlock's phone rang for the first time in well over a year and a half. The tall pale man excused himself from Phantom John and answered the phone. “Hello?”

Sherlock heard his brother's voice for the first time in nearly two years. “It's Mycroft. John is missing.”

Shock and fear tore through Sherlock. His brain buzzed for a second before he managed to focus and reply. Sherlock snarled out his questions, “What do you mean missing? You were supposed to be watching him Mycroft!”

“We were. He got on the Tube and vanished. From what we can tell it was two days ago now. We found out earlier and I've been trying to track him ever since. I'm forwarding all the footage from that day. We don't think he was kidnapped but it's not beyond believing that he could have been coerced somehow or even blackmailed into leaving.”

“I'll be needing a ticket.” There was no choice now. Regardless of the risks Sherlock needed to find John, to rescue him if he needed it. What could have happened? How could John have slipped away for _two whole days_ and no one noticed? What was Mycroft doing besides Lestrade? Sherlock asked.

“Very amusing Sherlock, Gregory and I have been working. He's been busy with the crime rate and I have been working on running the country. Your tickets are already waiting for you at the airport. They're under the name Mr. J John as per usual, first class flight, direct to London. Anthea will collect you.”

Sherlock ended the call, “Time to pack John. Apparently you win. Come on. We have to find you.” Phantom John was very merry about the entire thing even though Sherlock was extremely concerned. Phantom John distracted Sherlock during the taxi ride to the airport and helped Sherlock deduce things about the other passengers as the flight commenced. It wasn't until they were landing in London that Sherlock realized that somewhere over the English Channel he'd lost his phantom. He was home.

Sherlock breathed London in as he sat next to Anthea with the window rolled down. The breeze was ruffling her perfect hair but she didn't stop texting. She never did. Sherlock didn't say a word to the dark hair PA and she didn't expect it. Sherlock steeled himself as the car pulled into an alley three blocks away from Baker Street. Sherlock walked the alleys the rest of the way. All the sights of London had not stirred him as much as seeing those old bricks rising up in all their precarious glory.

Climbing through the back gate Sherlock used the key he knew Mrs. Hudson always hid there and let himself into the building. Mycroft had told Sherlock she was gone, rather conveniently Sherlock thought. Mycroft must have engineered an excuse to keep her away tonight. Using his lock-pick kit Sherlock pushed open the door to his flat and entered 221 B gratefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh the feels! Do I never stop???? Thank FoolishAngel1987 - I follow where I'm led.
> 
> Follow along in the next story "Broken Parts, Missing Limbs"  
> arriving sooner than you realize


End file.
